Farewell to Sinbad

I went to the funeral yesterday of a man who I admired and respected.

He was a fighter pilot, an aircraft mechanic, a sailor, a priest, a father, a husband and a confidante to many.

His sense of humour was wicked; his temper, mild. He looked at you with keen interest and as if he knew a secret that he was only too willing to share, if only you'd ask. I never did; but I've never been comfortable with religion.

I went to school with his two younger sons, never having met the older brother or sister. Sinbad Most Junior was one of my best friends during those years and the family were neighbours. Junior spent as much time at our house as I did at his. We had a cadre of pals and we did everything together. Swim, talk, play tennis, do everything teenagers did when together - though not drugs or alcohol, we had no need and our community was very, very small.

Sinbad was always there in the background, with his King George V beard, handing out advice and telling, sometimes, inappropriate jokes, a sparkle in his eyes. We were all comfortable with him: he didn't pressure us, treated us like we were a part of his family too. Happy were those days, even with teenage angst.

Now, some twenty-five years later, he's gone. It's odd that I was thinking of him and his youngest son only a couple of days ago. Had he, once departing his mortal cage, touched those he'd helped long ago one last time? It would be just like him: no matter how much time had passed, he would always remember you, and what you meant to his children and him.

I had no tears for him at the funeral, he would have told me to buck up, nudged me out my maudlin mood, told another of his jokes; he was that kind of a man. At the moment though, the tightness is there in my throat, the sting is behind my eyes. I didn't realise how I would miss him. Now, I do. He'll always be a part of my history and I will always be glad I knew him. He'll live on in my heart; and in so many others.

Blessed be, Sinbad